


Build Me a City (I Promise I'll Annihilate It)

by indygoh



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: "show me how" trope, Bellamy has a potty mouth, F/M, Fluffy Smut, Hand Job, I know you need to, This is not to be taken seriously, alleviate all those angsty feels bellarkers, light humor, slight hand fetish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3218174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indygoh/pseuds/indygoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Between the sound of her sweet voice floating into his ears and the feel of his body finally beginning to loosen up, he was about two seconds away from passing out into a stone-dead sleep. </p>
<p>That was until Clarke's fingers... did something that made his hips jerk forward into his mattress, and he had to choke down a surprised grunt."</p>
<p>Or, Bellamy has been helping rebuild Camp Jaha, and it's seriously killing him. Clarke really just wants to help, somehow. And if Bellamy can teach her something new along the way, then who is he to refuse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Build Me a City (I Promise I'll Annihilate It)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there and welcome to my shame-fest. Really, I wasn't going to write this, I was just gonna let the plot-bunny die. Then 2x09 happened and I just needed happy-fluff-smut to make me feel better about life. :'( Also, I seem to have a thing for writing in Bellamy's POV. I just enjoy it more, I guess. *shrug*
> 
> This was written quickly and is un-beta'd, so please forgive the awkwardness of it all.
> 
> Enjoy!

Bellamy had never felt so sore and stiff in his entire life. That was saying something considering how his early life consisted of hard manual labor on the ARK, and later hard manual _surviving_ on the ground. Nothing toned up muscle better than running for your life and hurling spears at your enemies. Really, he was in the best shape of his life. He shouldn't have felt like he got run over by a Grounder army.

 

But little had he known, the true work-out didn't start until the fighting died down, and they began to _build_.

 

That first winter had hit them hard, and when Camp Jaha had finally clawed its way from under the frost, plans for sturdier, warmer buildings were soon underway. Everything needed an upgrade—a new medical center, a storage warehouse, a mess hall, and plenty of cozy little homes for new families to flourish in. Wick and a few other volunteers had set about making all kinds of lists—necessary building supplies and tools, as well as the projected amount of labor needed to complete each project within the allotted time. Everything needed to be done before the next winter began.

 

Knowing that the labor would be the most difficult part to find, Bellamy had graciously offered his services, though his knowledge of building was limited. He had even dragged a few of the reluctant delinquents with him, much to their annoyance.

 

It was the worst mistake of his young life. Every nerve and muscle in his body was on fire, screaming at him for being an idiot and volunteering his services to the cause.

 

Building, as it turned out, completely sucked.

 

He had been at it for almost two weeks now. They had finished the new med bay—which he knew was worth it, if Clarke's grateful, beaming smile was anything to go by—and the storage warehouse, along with a few small huts, including his own. Hey, if he was going to get anything out of this torture, it was going to be four walls and a comfy bed. The warm fireplace didn't hurt either.

 

It still didn't seem to make up for his aching body though.

 

The others didn't seem to understand his plight. Octavia told him to stop being a baby ("You're such a wimp, big brother. Suck it up"). Miller had laughed and pointed out that he now walked like an old man, all hunched over and looking half-dead. Jasper and Monty had been a little more sympathetic, offering to whip up some sort of pain-alleviating herb concoction ( _that_ had turned out to be a very bad idea. Bellamy would never look at plants the same way again).

 

Clarke had been genuinely concerned, and thank fuck _someone_ actually cared that his body was under serious duress.

 

"Sorry," she had told him, wincing when he tried to roll his shoulders loose as they locked up once again. "I would help, but—"

 

"No, the med bay needs you more," he had replied, with his best Don't Worry About It face. "Can't have one of our only medics getting sore hands. How would you stitch our sorry asses up then?"

 

Clarke had smiled at his attempt to reassure her, but the worry in her eyes had lingered, so he decided to keep quiet about how much pain he was really in from then on. The building needed to be done, like _now_ , before winter swept in and offed what few people they had left. And there was no need to stress out the princess any more than he already did by letting her know that he was slowly dying a very painful death. (Not that he meant to stress her out at all. It was a force of habit, really. Completely unintentional on his part.)

 

Now he was laying face-down in his cot after a long, sweaty day of lifting and chopping. His hands throbbed with new blisters that would soon callous. His head pounded from what he was guessing was dehydration (he couldn't know for sure. He should probably ask Clarke at some point). He was trying not to move because whenever he did one of his muscles would lock-up. When he tried to stretch the seized muscle, another would cramp up in its place. It was a never ending cycle of painful spasms and sore limbs. Not to mention the excruciating, pulsing pain in his lower back.

 

This was his life now. Pathetically flopping into his bed while his body slowly tried to recover from the day's work, while seriously regretting the majority of his life-choices.

 

He was wallowing in his self-made agony-spiral when someone came barging into his hut.

 

He groaned at whoever it was to go away. He would not be moving from this very spot for the next ten hours, at least.

 

"Yikes," he recognized Clarke's voice. Her footsteps marched across his wooden floor closer to his bed. "You should have told me it was this bad."

 

She plopped down next to him on his cot, and placed a small plate of food on the table near his head. He wanted so badly to nab the tasty-looking roll and scarf it, but that required movement, and that wasn't happening any time soon. His stomach growled, and he sighed in utter disappointment.

 

"Not much you can do about it, Princess," he replied to her earlier statement. "There wasn't really a reason to tell you."

 

Clarke glowered at him, and he tried not to flinch. She had literally the most effective Shut-The-Fuck-Up-Before-I-Slap-You face in the entire world. He looked away.

 

"Um, hello? That's _Doctor_ Princess, to you." Bellamy could practically _feel_ her eyes roll at him.

 

He snorted at her.

 

"Seriously, Bellamy. I'm kind of worried. Your muscles should have adapted to the strain of harder work by now. Especially since you were in good shape to begin with."

 

"You been checkin' me out, Doc?"

 

She huffed, and he smirked into his pillow.

 

"Shut up," she shoved his arm, and this time he did flinch. She froze at his pained groan. "Okay, that's it. I'm helping whether you like it or not."

 

"Clarke, there really isn't anything you can do—"

 

"Watch me," she said, determined, before yanking at the hem of his ragged, worn out shirt, forcing it up and over his head before he could even let out an indignant "what the fuck?".

 

His triceps and shoulders shrieked at the movement. He swallowed a yelp.

 

"Okay, now just relax."

 

"That's what I was _trying_ to do before you stripped me—OW, fuck!"

 

Clarke pressed a heavy palm into the back of his shoulder, and his brows scrunched up in discomfort. She kneaded the muscle in tight little circles, like she was trying to imprint the shape into his bones.

 

"Jeez, Bellamy. It feels like you have cement under your skin. Don't you stretch before working?"

 

"You're supposed to do that?"

 

He heard a disgusted sigh from above him. "This is worse than I thought," she said. A second later, she was crawling up his bed, and straddling the back of his thighs. She ran her warm hands all the way from the top of his pants up to his neck. He startled like a newborn fawn.

 

"Clarke, what the hell—!"

 

"Shush." She settled down atop him, and leaned over his back once again. He resisted the urge to roll over. He couldn't read her expressions with his face shoved into his pillow. It was unnerving. He was good at reading people's intentions through their expressions. He was never sure how to act, otherwise.

 

She seemed to sense his unease. "Relax. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of bad ass?"

 

"Yes. I'm a total bad ass. A bad ass who is sore as all fuck—ouch! Damn it, Princess!"

 

"Sorry," she said flippantly, not sounding very genuine. She smoothed a hand over the abused flesh. "I've actually never done this before."

 

He paused, feeling the horror build in his chest. "Well that's comforting."

 

"Shut up, it's not like I can make it any worse."

 

"Not instilling much confidence over here, Clarke."

 

"Trust me, I'm a doctor."

 

"Sure, I'll trust you to massage me into an early grave—Ow, ow, ow—"

 

Clarke's hands got back to work regardless of his objections. She started with the stiff muscle that connected his shoulder to his neck. Her thumb pressed into the knots he could feel there, and he grimaced. She was pushing hard enough to leave bruises on his skin, but he slowly felt the lumps give way under her expert fingers.

 

"This is your Trapezius muscle," she told him as she continued to work.

 

He laughed, the sound more like a strained, pathetic chuckle. "You giving me an anatomy lesson, Doc?"

 

"May as well know the parts you're butchering everyday by not stretching properly, right?"

 

Clarke continued working down his back, and he felt the soreness begin to seep out of him, as if she were drawing out a poison with each firm press. She ticked off the name of each muscle as she went: The Teres Minor, Teres Major, Latissimus, External Oblique...

 

Between the sound of her sweet voice floating into his ears and the feel of his body _finally_ beginning to loosen up, he was about two seconds away from passing out into a stone-dead sleep.

 

That was until Clarke's fingers... _did_ something that made his hips jerk forward into his mattress, and he had to choke down a surprised grunt.

 

They both froze.

 

What the fuck?

 

Her hands had been happily working away at his lower back, just barely an inch above his pants. Her thumbs had slipped to either side of his spine, and she had been running them back up to the bottom of his neck when she had hit a... particularly sensitive spot where his back dipped into his tailbone.

 

"Umm..." He felt a humiliated flush creep up his neck into his face. He knew of certain spots on the body that could be stimulated to produce... certain effects, but he didn't know there were any on his _back_ of all places. Let alone that it was _freaking Clarke Griffin_ that located said pressure point. His whole body thrummed with an unexplained thrill, even as he buried his nose in the blankets below him. He prayed she didn't notice his ears turning red.

 

Clarke didn't say a word. Instead, she once again began to caress his skin, this time with a lighter touch that made him shiver. Her hands swept over him, seeming to want to cover every single inch of his broad back. He had a feeling that phantom hands would be haunting his dreams for many nights to come.

 

Every few minutes, her fingers would press into _that spot_ again, and it shot an electric bolt of pleasure straight to his groin, but now he expected it, so he would just barely tremble, and press an opened-mouthed, silent gasp into his pillow.

 

(He was having a little trouble catching his breath. He wasn't sure if it was from the soft, careful torture she was inflicting on him, or the fact that his face had been buried in coarse cotton for the past twenty minutes.)

 

Clarke remained silent behind him, and he would be lying if he said it wasn't starting to intimidate him. Was she disgusted by his reaction? She was just trying to help him out, after all. Not feel him up. Nothing sexual on her end. Yet here he was, a hot, panting mess under her unassuming touches. He could feel his dick throb and twitch between his stomach and the mattress, and it took everything in him not to wriggle and buck to get the friction he so desperately needed.

 

He felt sort of dirty. He knew he shouldn't, that his body's reaction was normal, healthy even. But to react this way to Clarke, who was being her usual helpful, dutiful self... It just felt wrong somehow. He didn't think of Clarke as just someone to get off on. She was—well, a hell of a lot more to him than that.

 

Fuck, when was the last time he jacked off? He shouldn't be this sensitive, especially when Clarke wasn't touching a particularly arousing spot. He quickly thought back to what must have been the last time and realized it was before the construction projects began. After that, he had always been to tired and sore to bother getting off. He would just collapse into bed and try to sleep away the agony in his bones.

 

That had been weeks ago.

 

He swallowed, feeling the dryness of his throat.

 

"Bellamy?" she finally, _finally_ said. He thought she sounded a little breathless, but that could have been his sexually-charged brain playing tricks on his ears. "How about you roll over so I can work the front?"

 

He felt his eyes widen.

 

_Huh?_

 

Bellamy's first thought was _yes, please god work the front. Please, please please_ —

 

His next thought was _shit, shit, shit, shit!_

 

"Can't. It still hurts too much."

 

"Really? I thought you might be feeling a little better," her voice pouted behind him.

 

"Oh! The pain!" he shouted, and he felt her jerk in surprise on the back of his legs. "I think you missed a few hundred spots on my back Princess, so I'll just stay facing this way—"

 

"Bellamy Blake," she growled his name this time and he went quiet. "Roll over, _now_."

 

He knew a command when he heard one. She punctuated it by pushing her hands against his ass, forcing his hips to grind down into the bed.

 

This time the moan strangled its way out of his throat against his will.

 

He reluctantly rolled over beneath her, avoiding eye contact at all costs. She sat up on her knees to allow the movement. He squirmed uncomfortably as he looked at everything around the room except her. The tent in the front of his pants was obvious and demanded immediate attention. Sure enough, he watched her gaze flicker down past his abs to his groin out of the corner of his eye. There was definitely no hiding it now.

 

He slowly looked at her face, afraid of what he might find there (Disgust? Horror? _Fear_?) only to find that it was competing with his own warm cheeks in the Tomato Imitation Game. She was blushing all the way down to her toes, it seemed.

 

Was that _curiosity_ he saw there? Nah. Couldn't be.

 

"Um—I—sorry," Clarke stuttered. It was kind of cute. "I didn't mean to do... that... to you."

 

Yeah fucking right! Then why did she keep hitting that _one spot every ten seconds, hmmm_?

 

"Right, uh. Sorry. I know it's weird," God, his face was going to combust. She was still straddled over his thighs, and that _seriously wasn't helping_. "Sorry, Princess."

 

She tilted her head. "Why are you apologizing?"

 

"Because you were just being nice, and I got all... weird on you. Really, it's my bad. You should probably go, I mean, Raven is most likely looking for you... about the thing at the place. Right?"

 

"Uh huh. Yup. The thing. That Raven is looking for me about. At the place. I should go."

 

"Yes. Right now, probably."

 

"Right."

 

"..."

 

"..."

 

"Clarke?"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"You aren't leaving."

 

She looked down at his crotch again, and this time he saw hunger hiding just below the curious surface of her gaze.

 

"No, I guess I'm not." She wriggled around on top of him, squirming in place.

 

_Oh, fuck this. To hell with it all!_

 

Bellamy snatched her hand that had been laying idly against his side, and flattened her palm against his hip bone. He kept his hand over hers, and ran both of them along his pelvis until her fingers teased the light trail of hair that led down into his jeans. He shuddered at the sensation of her warm hands fluttering over such a sensitive spot, and his cock jumped enthusiastically at the exploring touch. He didn't break eye contact, searching for any sign of hesitation or discomfort in her face.

 

There was none.

 

She sucked in a breath, seemed to make a decision, and before he could think of a good reason to talk himself out of this, her fingers were tearing apart his belt, popping open the buttons on his pants, yanking down the zipper, and tugging them along with his boxers down over his erection. He was so hard, it bobbed over his stomach once freed from its confines. (he tried not to blush all over again).

 

If she had been watching his crotch before, now her eyes were absolutely _glued_ to it.

 

"Clarke? You alright?"

 

"Huh?" she said, bewildered. "Yeah. Yes. I'm okay. I mean, I've just never gotten the chance to really _look_ at one before, you know?"

 

Bellamy lifted a brow (and tried to ignore the throbbing down below. This was seriously the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to him.) "But you're not a virgin. Are you?"

 

"No," she admits. She trails a finger down the seam between his leg and his groin and he stifles a contented sigh even as he throbs needily. "But it all happened so fast. It was only the one time, and it was pretty dark. I never touched him there, either."

 

Something low in his gut began to burn. Like a big, glowing ember slowly heating his entire body until it was ablaze.

 

He hasn't even kissed her yet and he wanted her so bad he could burst. But maybe he had always been like this, since day one—when she had so haughtily told him _we can't just open the doors, the air could be toxic_. He knew he loved Clarke. _That_ had never been in question. But the lust was new, strange, and intoxicating. And a little frightening, if he was being honest.

 

He took a breath. "Do you want to try?"

 

She glanced into his eyes, and she must have seen something that reassured her, because with a small, shy nod she asked, "Will you show me how?"

 

He sucked in a quick gasp, because they've been here before, with Clarke holding a gun for the first time, and him tentatively touching her shoulder, adjusting her stance as he showed her how to defend herself with a deadly weapon. Her excited smile when she turned to him, exuberant at having learned something new, something useful, something that could help someone else. And now this new thing the princess wanted to learn was _him_ , and how freaking awesome was that?

 

_You need to practice._

 

Fuck, he was so in love with this girl.

 

He took her hand once again, and this time he lowered it confidently, wrapped it around his cock and showed her _exactly_ what to do.

 

He showed her the spot at the base that made him quietly moan. He pressed her thumb gently into the space right under the sensitive head and his hips bucked (she giggled at him when he did, and he smiled. She was so fucking adorable). He showed her how hard to squeeze and how fast to go, and how to twist her wrist _just so_ and it made him throw his head back when she took over, when Clarke gently pulled his guiding hand away and started working him on her own.

 

She pumped him up and down, up and down, and he jerked his hips into each stroke. His hands fisted into the blankets below him.

 

"Shit, _fuck_ Clarke! Just like—ah!—just like t-that," he groaned, like the complete and utter wreck she had reduced him to. She was breathless above him, her pupils blown wide and latching on his every reaction. She was reading him like a book—when his voice quieted too much, she would squeeze a little tighter, her thumb twitching over the head. When his jaw went slack and his back arched a bit, she would back off, teasing him mercilessly. He never wanted it to end.

 

Then she leaned over him, still pumping his cock, and kissed the place right above his abs. He grunted, surprised at her sudden affection. The feeling of her lips on his skin was even more exquisite than he ever imagined. And he _had_ imagined, hundreds of times, what those soft lips might feel like.

 

She kissed her way up his chest, never pausing in her steady, lulling movements, until she was nuzzling into his neck, and burying her teeth into the muscle of his shoulder.

 

"Shit!" he gasped. His hips flew off the bed, jerking involuntarily into her fist.

 

"Liked that, did you?" Clarke said. Bellamy could feel her smirk against his throat. He couldn't retort with anything but a stuttered "shut up, don't stop, don't stop". His brain had flown out the door the second she started touching him what felt like hours ago.

 

Her free and went down to lift the bottom of her shirt, and he felt her press him against the soft skin of her belly. Her palm still stroked, but now she rubbed him against her own body. She lifted herself onto her elbow, kissed his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. She smiled at him, all mischievous and seductive at the same time.

 

"Well? Aren't you going to finish?" She bit him again, and this time he knew he was a goner.

 

" _Fuck_."

 

Bellamy moved his cock against her, fucking the space between her palm and her stomach. Clarke twisted a fist into his hair and yanked his head back, and then she was kissing him, her tongue demanding and hot in his mouth, just like he knew it would be, and he came against her supple skin and into her stroking hand, moaning helplessly into her mouth, his dick twitching like mad.

 

Never let it be said that Clarke Griffin wasn't a damn fast learner.

 

His whole body went slack, completely relaxing into the mattress below him for the first time since he started the nightmare construction project.

 

A few minutes later, as soon as his mind came floating back down from the clouds, he saw her wiping her hand against his blankets.

 

"Sorry." He winced when he remembered that he just shot his load _under_ her shirt. It would probably stain. How awkward was that? "Should've warned you sooner."

 

"I don't mind," she smiled, pecked him on the lips. "Wow, I'm kind of sore now, though." She winked at him as she pretended to stretch her arms out. "That was more of a work-out than I thought!"

 

Bellamy grinned like a wolf among sheep.

 

"I think I can help you with that."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome, as is anything else! Thanks for reading. :D


End file.
